I received this book for Christmas from a friend who'd heard great things-- and heck, even Bjork was a big fan! What could possibly go wrong?

It was a quick read. Almost too quick, in fact. The major plot arc is set up as a fascinating collision of myth and truth, in which storytelling and reality circle one another and prepare for inevitable battle.
WARNING: Spoilers ahead....



Except it was entirely evitable. Because it doesn't happen. Not much of anything does, if we're being honest. One of my major pet peeves in fiction is a dull protagonist, particularly one who is plucked from the ordinary and tossed into the extraordinary, and either doesn't notice, doesn't understand, or doesn't care about the shift. This book is a particularly egregious offender.

After finishing, I felt the need to read professional reviews, so certain that I had missed some critical development in the story. Instead I stumbled upon an interview with the author and nearly puked into my mouth. I had missed nothing, except that (light a clove cigarette, toss on your best plaid and shirt and bow tie) "that was sooooo the point". The author had literally written the book as a cut-and-paste contrast of two already-written stories--one real, based on an ancestor's memoirs; one mythical, chosen seemingly at random-- in order to satirize the foolishness of the former. No, really. The whole book is a dull joke about his great-grandfather's inanity.

I understand this kind of satire. Really, I get it. I'd like to think that anyone with a high school diploma could get the joke: a character has his face buried so deep in his silly views that he fails to see what's right in front of him. This isn't a new joke. Maybe once upon a time it was original. But today, its proper place is in a vignette. Maybe a short story. But drawing it out a little bit without any real elaboration on the theme, and then calling it a brilliant novel? That's frankly offensive to the readers' intelligence.

Unsatisfying, dull, and lazy. Hurray for postmodernism!